communication mode and was it not Ilkar who guided you to your destination all those years ago despite being dead?’
Denser shrugged. ‘Yes. So what?’
‘Open your eyes,’ snapped Dystran, slapping the arm of his chair and dislodging the bell which fell into his lap. He was interrupted by a brief fit of coughing.
‘You really believe they are here because something ripped open their own dimension? Something that powerful would not just be here by now, it would have destroyed us already. Think, my Lord of the Mount. This is not threat, it is opportunity. Find out what they really want. Find out why the mana spectrum is unstable. Xetesk thrives on harnessing fear, we always have.’
‘You’re saying I should dismiss the statements of my dead friends as lies?’
‘We’re saying treat anything a dead soul says with a little healthy scepticism. Every time one speaks, repeat to yourself, “Would I want to regain life if I were to die?” ’
‘Well of course I would. No one wants to die.’
‘Exactly,’ said Vuldaroq. ‘And expect them therefore to come up with a solution to the problem they have so conveniently appeared to warn you about.’
‘They already have,’ said Denser and a frown crept on to his face. ‘Are you saying…?’
‘Ha! I rest my case,’ said Dystran, folding back into his chair, an expression of smug satisfaction on his pasty, thin face.
‘Wait, wait, young Dystran,’ said Vuldaroq, leaning further forward. ‘What form does this solution take?’
Denser shrugged. ‘Well, to be fair, this is where I have begun to lose it. They are convinced the enemy they say we face is too powerful and that we need to leave.’
Dystran gaped. Vuldaroq’s smile was half knowing.
‘Leave? And go where?’ he asked
‘Anywhere that isn’t Balaia, apparently.’
‘By which I suppose they mean south to Calaius, do they?’
‘Oh no, that would be too easy. They want us to leave the dimension entirely.’ Denser paused, sudden anxiety rippling through his mind. ‘Look, I can see where this is going.’
‘I should bloody well hope so,’ said Vuldaroq. ‘Bored dead people reappear in Balaia and announce the living should leave. I have no doubt you have been told their own dimension is damaged beyond repair or something like that.’
‘Something like that,’ said Denser. ‘But hang on a moment. These people are my friends, my wife. I trust them. I love them. And they want to leave too. With us, I think.’
‘So they say. And look who has come back so far,’ said Dystran. ‘That we know of. No simpletons. Of those who have announced themselves at our gates, or to you personally, every single one was a player before they died. The Raven. Styliann, my own predecessor, though his appearance was confusingly brief. Dear Gods burning and sorry you don’t know this, but there is a man sitting in the Mana Bowl right now who claims to be Septern.’
‘I did know that, and he is a fraud,’ said Denser. ‘He must be.’
‘You are so certain?’ said Dystran.
‘I just don’t see what point you’re making. It isn’t just powerful people. Ordinary Xeteskians are back too.’
‘But they are not shouting, are they? And that’s because they are merely pawns in this game. People of influence have returned. Drawn by something they clearly need. That, given what you have told us, appears to be a new home. Our home. And without us in it.’ Dystran leaned right forward and his voice was a husky whisper. ‘We don’t know what being dead does to people, Denser. Even those we love. Don’t trust any of them.’
‘I may not agree with them, but I will never deem them liars. You are talking about the most loyal people ever to have walked Balaian soil,’ said Denser. He pushed himself from his chair, unable to sit. He could feel his cheeks reddening. ‘You are talking about the woman I love and over whom I still weep ten years on. You who sit here in your cave, too frightened to face the world a decade after we, The Raven, freed it from the shackles of the demons. You are not fit to empty their piss from a bucket.’
‘And you will do your duty by your college!’ Dystran’s voice still held a surprising amount of power when he needed it. ‘The Raven is gone. You are Lord of the Mount. Start thinking like him.’
A servant came in bearing a tray of tea and coffee and no doubt heard enough of the conversation to keep him in free ale for ten days.
Denser had to restrain himself from spitting on the tray on his way out.
‘I only drink with friends.’
Chapter 11
Blackthorne had been chased by murderous enemies before but there was a bizarre quality to this one that was in danger of causing fatal complacency.
In the days since the Garonin had responded to Gresse’s attack with such appalling violence, the survivors had moved ahead of them. But such was the slow pace of the enemy advance that Blackthorne and the partially recovered Gresse had been able to undertake considerable planning. And because the Garonin stopped at dusk, standing stock still as if frozen in time, and restarted at dawn, they could camp, rest, forage and track at leisure.
It was early morning on a misty but warming day. The thud of the Garonin machines was distant and they had become accustomed to it winding up with the morning songbirds. Blackthorne walked his horse alongside the open wagon in which Gresse sat a little reluctantly. Mages had healed the bone breaks but his distrust of magic was such that he refused the administration of Mother’s Warmth to complete the healing process.
‘It leaves me vulnerable. Out of control,’ he grumbled.
‘It leaves you asleep in your wagon for a day and fit to ride the next. Stubborn old goat.’
‘The body recuperates at a given pace for a reason. No one has ever looked into the lasting effects of hurrying healing along with spells.’
‘I’m not going to argue with you, Gresse,’ said Blackthorne, rubbing at his mouth and beard to hide the smile. ‘But you’re grumpy because you cannot ride, yet you will not take the cure. It’s up to you. Meanwhile, I thought you might not like to hear what our scouts are telling us.’
Gresse looked up at him and grimaced. ‘That bad, is it?’
‘We’ve riders on the ground and we all have ears. We’ve counted five of these machines. All of them travelling in straight lines, all of them driving people in front of them, leaving devastation in their wake. The devastation continues to expand as you feared, eating up the ground, killing everything. There’s no escape. And all of their destinations are depressingly clear.’
‘Let me guess. Korina, Xetesk, Julatsa, Lystern and Dordover. Key population centres.’
‘Almost right,’ said Blackthorne. ‘But you have made one small error in your assumptions. It isn’t populations and people they are after, necessarily. There is no machine headed for Dordover. It’s going to Triverne Lake, to the site of the original college of magic.’
‘Of course, silly me. No Heart in Dordover and not so many people either these days. You think they’re after mana just like I do.’
‘They are harvesting something, aren’t they? And we’ve seen what the detonation clouds are run with. And the aftermath is very much like a mana fire. Stands to reason.’
‘So it does. And as it happens, I agree with you completely. So presumably you have riders on their way to the target cities?’
‘Of course.’
‘Mages would be faster.’
‘If they make it. Few will take the risk of flying such long distances. Hit a mana dropout and that’s your lot. Too risky.’
Gresse was quiet for a moment. Blackthorne watched his old friend weighing up what he’d heard. He looked very old and sick this morning. His eyes had dulled since the run from the vineyards. Blackthorne wondered how
